Review: The Wind Blows Where It Will

The Wind Blows Where It Will directed by Portland, Oregon, based director Kunal Mehra is rigidly constructed film, running slightly over three-hours, which demands the viewer’s attention. Holding fastidiously to a Bressonian austereness and its own wrought-out languidness TWBWIW, in the end, reaches a deep and resonant poignancy.

It’s a remarkably simple story. Philippe, a solitary young man, works in a small office selling blinds. He’s in a long distance relationship with Jeanne. She comes for a visit and tells Philippe she wants to breakup; no real explanation is given. Thus Philippe, already a quiet soul, must learn to live truly on his own; their rupture serving as an impetus to his silent and spiritual unraveling.

In essence TWBWIW is a intense character study and Mehra with monk-like patience trains his camera on the recondite Philippe excavating his internal struggle like a surgeon. The world Philippe inhabits is extremely minimal with a distinctive pace and mood. Mehra’s strength lies in his ability to slow to that pace, to listen the silences, to take the slow breathes, and reveal a depth of character rarely seen.

Look how he presents Philippe at the beginning of the film:

In the twilight hour he walks home from work.

Along the street he stops to admire some autumnal trees…

…he lies down beneath the trees. The wind blows the leaves and as we share this moment with Philippe.

He finally gets up and heads home.

In his apartment he turns on the lights, places down some flowers, and removes his coat.

He then takes in flowers into the living room and places them in a vase. He smells them.

Returning to the bedroom he lies down.

After a while Philippe gets up and removes the blanket.

Carefully folding it up.

Then he removes the sheets.

In the corner of the room he unfolds the ironing board.

He places the sheet on the board and begins to iron.

Back and forth, back and forth he irons…

After a while he finishes…

…and returns to the bed, placing the sheet back on.

He makes the rest of the bed, smoothing it into creaselessness.

He now places two pillows on the bed.

Once satisfied with the bed he opens his valise and pulls out a bottle of wine.

He goes into the kitchen and places the wine in the cupboard.

Back in the bedroom he lies down again.

A moment passes and he turns on some classical music.

His feet move to the music.

After a moment he switches off the music but continues to lie in bed.

He turns on his side, leaving most of the frame now empty. Mehra holds on this image of Philippe’s back and hand for a while.

When he gets up he heads into the bathroom…

…he checks himself in the mirror and combs his hair.

Back in the bedroom he puts back on his coat and heads out.

This sequence, devoid of dialog, runs approximately eleven minutes functioning on barren images animated by very simple actions. The stills above hardly do it justice (and possibly detracts from the intricate pacing established). There’s a literary quality to this sequence. For in this sustained observation we move past the images, which are easily deciphered, into an internal intimacy that’s seen through his mechanical actions. This is the case throughout. We learn that Philippe speaks loudest in the most quiet of moments.

Mehra is also tampering with temporally. For example, when Philippe and Jeanne return home from the train station Jeanne is cold to Philippe. (PilgrimAkimbo does an excellent job describing their meeting).

Once in his pajamas Philippe enters the kitchen and pulls two glasses from the cupboard.

Then pulls down the wine.

He pours one glass.

Just as he begin to pour the second glass Jeanne stops him (appearing screen-left).

Jeanne: “No, pour one for yourself if you want. I’ll be asleep in five minutes.”

She pour a glass a tap water. Philippe stands silent. Drinks her water than exits. Philippe, disappointed, pours the wine down the sink.

He rinses out the glasses and places them back in the cupboard.

He then pours a glass of water for himself.

He stands alone.

This scene is analogous to how the entire film works: built-up, piece-by-piece, action by action (without forgetting previous scenes that preceded) to a devastating end. Jeanne’s response not only undercuts the romantic implications but also undermines the laborious efforts Philippe puts into the relationship, down to the wrinkles in the sheets. Mehra consciously shapes how time works in his film, which could mistakenly be read as tedious, but there’s genuine thought behind his methods.

Once Jeanne is out of the picture we’re not simply left with Philippe. He does meet up with a friend, runs into an old flame, and even takes another girl home, but it all seems to be happening at a distance, in a waking life. We find the true Philippe home alone smelling his flowers, listening to music, or standing beneath leaf-falling trees.

It’s safe to say Philippe is obsessed with Jeanne. He sees her places she’s not and at home labors over a unfinished sculpture of her face with an eerie gentleness. At its core TWBWIW is about where you put your faith, and if that’s challenged how do you coupe?

To be sure there are minutes in TWBWIW which pass in silences that are both palpable and piercing. And in such scenes, once succumbing to their rhythm, settling in the listlessness, your mind isn’t so much processing or analyzing the images as it is simply responding to the subtle movements of light, to the heartbreaking gentleness of the piece. Rarely has a film tested with such boldness the boundaries of quietude and boredom (I use that term not in a derogatory sense) in order to reveal the true wounds of solitude. Like reading Dostoevsky or Proust you wade through the waters and when something happens, even the tiniest of events, it takes on astronomical importance.

Does it pay off in the end? Yes. The last couple of scenes validate everything that has come before and resonate with deep emotion. Mehra has definitely taken a risk making a film of this length and in this style but he succeeds. Not a simple achievement, especially from a first-time director. I will not write here that TWBWIW is flawless but its merits without question outweigh its drawbacks. It certainly should be seen more widely.

Contemplative cinema hasn’t made much headway in American films so it’s admirable to see a young director willing to take a large leap into the unknown. TWBWIW may just be one of the most relevant American debuts I’ve seen in quite a while.

Cinema Studies #2: Cinematic Staging

In his indispensable book “Figures Traced In Light” David Bordwell takes an in-depth look at cinematic staging, its evolution and variations, seen through four directors: Feuillade, Mizoguchi, Angelopoulos, and Hou. In that vein I plan to use my ‘Cinema Studies’ to also look at this understated stylistic approach to filmmaking. For this study we’ll look at Preston Sturges’ 1941 screwball comedy The Lady Eve.

A brief summary up to the point of study: Charles Pike (Henry Fonda) aka Hopsie is heir to an ale (not beer, “there’s a difference”) fortune. Returning to New York after spending a year in the Amazon studying snakes Hopsie is on a cruise liner home. He quickly falls in love and becomes betrothed to an oil tycoon’s daughter, Jean (Barbara Stanwyck). Unbeknownst to him Jean is actually part of a professional card-sharking con-team.

Our scene of study runs 2:14 with roughly ninety percent taking place in a single shot.

The day after his proposal Hopsie waits to meet Jean on the deck. He leans leisurely on the rail and whistles to himself.

He strolls casually to the right and back, the camera dollies with him.

Sturges sets the mood: vivacious, commodious. People pass by cheerily, breakfasters eat and chat, children are heard playing off-screen.

From the door in the background Hopsie’s confidant/right-hand-man Muggsy and the ship’s purser approach.

They fill the right side of the frame and direct their attention towards Hopsie.

Muggsy expresses concern that Hopsie is being had by a “a gang of sharpies.” He then grabs the envelope the purser is holding explaining there’s evidence inside to prove his theory. Muggsy exits.

The camera pushes in closer to form a two-shot of the purser and Hopsie. The purser suggests that if Hopsie hasn’t lost any money to not look in the envelope.

Hopsie assures the purser he has not lost any money and hands the envelope back.

Perplexed as to why Hopsie hasn’t been swindled the purser suggests “they might be aiming for higher game.” He then asks a pointed question:

“What’s it got to do with you?,” the offended Hopsie fires back.

“Look at the photograph and I’ll take the consequences. Good morning, sir.” With that the purser exits leaving us alone again with Hopsie.

Hopsie shrugs off the implication, opens the envelope, and pulls out a photo.

We cut to an insert of the photo; a jarring cut that moves from a medium-wide shot to an extreme CU. (We half-expect the photo to start moving)

The photo is of Jean, her father, and their third man.

A musical cue also corresponds to the cut. . . ominous sounding horns, building.

We cut back to the wide, Hopsie still does not understand. The music continues to climb towards a climax. He flips the photo over.

We cut to another insert: the back of the photo. As a viewer we don’t have to read the words to know what’s written. But Sturges still has to express the gravity of this moment from Hopsie’s point-of-view. . .

. . .he does it ever so elegantly by slowly-slowly dissolving, for 10 seconds, from the written text into a CU of Hopsie.

Note: this is not the wide shot in which the whole scene has played out in, this is a close-up emphasizing this particular moment. The music crescendos and slips into a somber tune.

Sturges then jump cuts from the CU back to the wide. Hopsie takes his time, carefully placing the photograph back into the envelope, as if tucking away his love for Jean. All the while his mind racing.

He turns and peers back for a moment.

Then listlessly makes his way towards the door.

Sturges holds the wide (rack focusing as he moves into the background) until Hopsie is clearly through the door.

By holding on the wide shot, as he makes his way into background, Hopsie, from our perspective, becomes smaller within the frame, visually becoming a diminutive character. (A technique Welles and Toland thoroughly explore the same year while making Citizen Kane).

By the end of this scene the mood is completely inversed from whence it began. The sounds of the children can still be heard but their mirth now adds to the hollowing out of the scene.

When one thinks of Sturges one thinks of high-fueled comedy, rapier wit, and screwball antics; The Lady Eve is no exception. Yet in the midst of all the rambunctiousness is this beautifully directed scene that could compare to something we’d find in Wyler or Welles picture. Using the minimal of camera set-ups (a wide and brief CU) and two inserts Sturges navigates us through a complex set of emotions with a deft touch. And by working mainly off the wide when he does employ a close-up or slow dissolve we’re witness to the powerful intrinsic qualities of each. Both techniques are used so haphazardly now that they’ve become ubiquitous and undervalued.

The subtlety of cinematic staging can reveal a complex subset of cinematic traits (movement within the frame, shifting eyelines, the play of perspective) that one could argue derive from the very roots of what cinema is and always has been . . . an art of observation.

Looking once more at our study one can see how Sturges invisibly directs this scene. He begins with an lofty-wideness of frame, allowing the character breathing room as he paces; soon other characters enter and exit, and as they do we slowly tighten in on Hopsie; we’re shown the photo/text (the main purpose of the scene) transition to a numb dissolve into Hopsie’s disheartened face; he then exits the scene a defeated man (shrinking by the step). The whole sequence quietly inches forward, the exit of characters allowing Sturges to creep clandestinely towards his climax. He quietly manipulates our subconscious emotions through subtle visual cues, creating a visual tension, done without an over-abundance of editing or unnecessary camera set-ups. Even without sound I believe most of what transpires here could be understood.

This is a extremely simple example, yet excellent study-piece, on how thought-out cinematic staging continues to challenge the barrage of ‘intensified continuity‘ filmmaking, so effervescent today, by offering a wealth of complexity while using the minimum of tools.

More on this to come.

Paraguayan Hammock (2006)

Paraguayan Hammock (2006)

The sun rises slowly on a shot of two trees, the ground covered in leaves. A dog barks incessantly somewhere in the distance. After a while an elderly couple wanders out from the woods behind. The woman constructs a hammock and they sit (see picture above, this is the shot in which much of the film plays out). Their conversation meanders from the weather, the dog, food, health problems, to “the war,” and their son who has left to fight that war.

As the story unfolds (told through a few other static shots, always from a distant position) our grip on reality slips. We realize that on this isolated farm time has become an enigma, shuttling back and forth like the hammock on which they sit. The couple’s conversation (presented via-voice-over) blankets shots of the old man harvesting, the woman sitting beside a stove, the man sitting outside their home, etc. The woman vaguely recalls someone telling her her son has died in battle, but the person doesn’t give the right middle-name for her to fully believe.

Has the son actually died in war? Is the mother disillusioning herself? And when did the son actually leave? How long has he been gone? Is the war over? Has it been over for quite some time?

These questions merge into obfuscation as night falls. It begins to rain. The couple, effete from their mental-rummaging, reach a breaking point as the darkness engulfs them; cognizant of their fragile morality.  They pack up the hammock and enter the dark-dark woods as the rain patters on . . . most likely to repeat this scene until their son returns or death whisks them away.

A beautiful minimalist experience by first-time director Paz Encina. In Guarani with subtitles.

Asking the Right Questions

Today’s DemocracyNow! broadcast featured a intense discussion with Philip Zelikow (executive director of the 9/11 Commission), Robert Wendrum (NBC investigative reporter), and Michael Rathner (Center for Constitutional Rights) discussing allegations made by Philip Shenon in his book “The Commission: The Uncensored History of the 9/11 Investigation” that roughly 25% of the 9/11 Commission Report’s footnotes where taken from information obtained by tortured detainees.

From the getgo the DNow! team went after Zelikow in asking if anyone on the 9/11 commission, during their multiple meetings with high-level officials (i.e. George Tenant, then head of the C.I.A.), asked, out right, if questioned detainees were tortured. Zelikow admitted he did not ask but quickly stated that he wasn’t the person pushing the issue with Tenant (it was his bosses). “Did they ask Tenant were the people tortured?,” Goodwin replied. To his knowledge he did’nt know. He admited the commission did have serious concerns on how information was obtained but did not press the issue.

Since the report’s release at least four ‘combatants’ have come forward claiming they were tortured not, as the CIA calls it, participants in “high level interrogation techniques.” So again we have public records tainted by false or forced testimonies.

The interview then waded into murkier areas of the commission’s activities. Shenon claims Zelikow had a conversation with his secretary in which he told her not to keep phone logs of his White House calls. She blew the whistle. Goodman-Gonzalez also addressed concerns that Zelikow pressured his staff to “whitewash” any negative information that could come out about Condoleezza Rice (an old friend of Zelikow’s) and President Bush (who was then running for re-election). Zelikow stiff armed the allegations but didn’t flat out deny them, h’mm. After several more pointed questions Zelikow became defensive stating that while on the commission he was battering ram for the right (Safire attacked him frequently in the Times) and now feels “attacked” by the other side.

Good.

This sort of reporting is exactly what’s needed in order to root out constant inconsistencies, biases, contradictions, and flat out falsities prepackaged and presented to the public on a regular basis. It is sad to see such an important issue such as this played out on a small stage: page six of newspapers, on public assess radio, or in the “blogasphere.” Why not in the national media? Least we forget that the 9/11 Commission Report was a national best seller in 2004? (Where’s that Frey outrage?)

Higher-level officials—who we should never forget are public servants—must be consistently subjected to direct and probing questions in order to root out the truth and to prevent “spin.” The media’s soft-balling has inevitably created an imaginary line that delineates what should and shouldn’t be addressed publicly or ever.

This issue about the 9/11 commission report reaches far beyond footnotes to the very core of American morally and how we conduct our business. Some of these same detainees the CIA have now admitted to torturing (or “legally” waterboarding) and then destroyed the evidence tapes.

Rarely does the mainstream media cross this imaginary line which can be chalked up to self-censorship. Where are the real images of war? What are the exact budgets of our military and CIA spending? Where are the rest of the torture photos? What about our secret gulags?

As heated as the presidential primaries are getting much of the public, the media, and the “major” candidates are functioning in a dream world. Real issues are not being addressed because real questions are rarely asked.

I’d like to hear a candidate speak directly to the enormous loss of innocent Iraqi/Afghan lives. Or what seriously needs to be done to reduce our dependence on foreign oil? Which should be a multifaceted answer that encompasses not only foreign policy but also a revisioning our national infrastructure.

Why do we considered ourselves a benevolent country when it comes to nuclear armament/use and not others? (Who dropped the only “bombs” in human existence?) As we move further into the 21st century functioning in this quixotic never-never land can only lead us down a dangerous path. Reality must be faced.

I commend Amy Goodman & Juan Gonzalez for consistently asking the right questions.

To be fair: Zelikow did state that “we have given the public all the information we can so people can write the stories today asking these questions. And we laid it all out for people to examine, including our citations and our concerns.” The CIA’s failure to answer many of the commission’s questions is now the subject of criminal investigation.

Watch or listen the interview here.

Cinema Studies #1: Transitions

(This is the first post of an ongoing series entitled: Cinema Studies. It will consist of in-depth investigations into the minutiae of film, the gears of cinema; middle-level research, if you will)

This first study will look at transitional sequences in two renowned American films: Terrence Malick’s Days of Heaven (1978) and Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather Part II (1974).

The two transitions here are selected for certain similarities:

1. Each begins with a character deep in thought on the precipice of a major decision.
2. Both transitions propel us a significant period of time either forward or backwards.
3. The primary tool used in both sequences is the dissolve: “a gradual [overlapping] transition from one image to another.”
4. Each sequence—arguably for this analysis—uses four shots to achieve its transition.

First Days of Heaven.

A brief summary leading up to the transition: Two harvesters, Bill and Abby, are a couple pretending to be brother and sister to the world. In an earlier scene Bill overhears a doctor’s diagnosis that The Farmer, the rich proprietor of the farm they’re working on, has about a year or so to live. That information combined with The Farmer’s infatuation with Abby leads Bill to concoct a scheme of faux love-and-marriage in order to come into his large inheritance.

The sequence we’ll look at is when Abby apprehensively agrees to the swindle transitioning into her wedding.

In the sleeping quarters of the harvesters Bill convinces Abby to execute the scam with a deviously convincing argument, he hates seeing her “stooped over out there”:

“I hate it,” he concludes, blowing smoke into the frame—an old silent film trope implying evil (or here avarice).

Ennio Morricone’s meditative score begins as Abby contemplates Bill’s words. Abby gets up and walks out of the room. She literally and metaphorically walks from the dark shabby boarding room (Bill’s influence) into the light (the farmer’s charm), from enclosure (poverty) into openness (prosperity), heading directly towards the farmer’s massive home framed above her.

Note the reflection of the farmer’s estate in the small pond. We see both the literal home that Abby will inhabit and the illusion, Abby’s true inheritance. We begin to hear the sound of birds…

The score quickly diminishes as Malick cuts to a shot of migrating birds flying from left to right. Their squawking overwhelms the soundtrack. The birds reside in the lower two-thirds of the frame but in relation to the previous shot of Abby our immediate perception is that we’re now looking up.

This brief shot of migrating birds then dissolves into a shot of treetops.

The squawking diminishes and the sound of rustling trees (which seems exaggerated) takes over. Now we are certainly looking up. We learn this because the camera begins to tilt down.

During this tilt we hear portentous words uttered from a person unseen, ominously foreshadowing the film’s apocalyptic finale.

As soon as these words are spoken Morricone’s score trickles back (as if on cue).

As tilt finishes we find ourselves at Abby’s wedding. The words have been spoken by the priest.

Within seconds we’ve transitioned from an unspoken decision to a definitive answer. We’ve also seamlessly moved from late fall into spring; the migrating birds serving as a symbolic bridge between seasons.

Beyond the dissolves what’s vital here is the movement within the frame, our eyeline is in constant movement. Abby walks out into the open; the birds give the impression of looking up moving to the right; we dissolve into the trees and lastly our eyes move down into the wedding. From the ground, up, right, and down back to the ground. Like a patient’s eyes following the doctor’s light Malick moves us fluidly from shot to shot.

A small part of Malick’s brilliance comes from his seemingly effortless and elliptical editing. But on closer examination one finds it a calculated and intricately involved series of images telling a deeper story than may appear on the surface (not to mention the equally exquisite sound work). In many cases the editing is so fluid words like “dreamy” or “intoxicating” become adjectives in which to describe it. But we must not underestimate the arduous efforts required in achieving these masterful qualities.

Next The Godfather Part II.

Brief Summary: Michael Corlene’s life, and that of his family, have been put into harm’s way. A failed assassination attempt has just occurred. Michael has decided to go see Hyman Roth in Miami who he suspects is behind the hit. Before leaving he enters his son’s room to inform him that he’ll be gone for a while. His son asks his he can come but Michael say he cannot.

The sequence of note here is when Michael sits up and the scene dissolves back several decades to his father’s early immigrant experiences in New York.

As Michael leans backs his head takes fills the left of the frame.

Slowly the shot dissolves 41 years into the past:

Michael’s father, Vito Corleone, is positioned on the right side of the frame. It is important to note the light that shines directly within Michael’s temple. It is as if his past is being illuminated, his familial past, extracted directly from his mind.

Vito looks to something off screen, down and to the right.

The shot dissolves into a wider shot of Vito’s apartment. We now see Vito’s wife and learn he is looking at his little son Santino (aka Sunny).

This third wider shot connects us thematically to the first. At these two overlapping moments of time each head of the Corleone family looks down upon their firstborn sons. Throughout this sequence a physical light shines in the upper left hand portion of the frame. The final dissolve begins…

…as it completes we find we are at a theater. The light in the right side of the frame has now transformed into one of the most iconic America symbols, The Statue of Liberty. (This shot can be considered the end of this transitional sequence because the following shot arrives via-a cut)

At its core The Godfather saga is a story of immigration. The Statue of Liberty serves an important symbol throughout the drama. In terms of chronology the most significent moment of young Vito’s life (besides the murder of his brother and mother) is the sight of the Statue of Liberty as he arrives in America. She’s an expression of hope. He is one of the “huddling masses yearning to breathe free.”

As the years pass the statue takes on a different connotation, one of liberty betrayed. As seen below she hovers above a scene of murder (from Godfather Part I), now small and almost obscure. Again note the statue is positioned in the upper left of the frame.

So as we fall backwards in the history of the Correlones we see fathers looking upon sons, but we are also reminded that this is a story of assimilation. The light in the upper left becomes a symbol of the seminial dreams which will end tragically. The light in Michael’s temple is Lady Liberty.

Both directors, Malick and Coppola, are working with similar tools to achieve different outcomes. Malick glides us forward using movement within the frame while Coppola dissolves backwards in time utilizing static compositions which specificaly placed elements to deepen his overall theme.

These are two examples of the million of ways cinematic transitions can function.

*The transitions studied here can be found here:

-Days of Heaven (Criterion Collection) 38:15 – 38:58

-The Godfather Part II (Paramount Pictures) 43:16 – 44:09

Kid Icarus: A review of Billy The Kid

Billy the Kid (2007)

DV Documentary

Dir: Jennifer Venditti

DP: Donald Cumming

 

 

 

Billy the Kid—on limited run at the IFC Theater in Manhattan—has been garnering accolades & awards for months. Shuffling through reviews the classic buzzwords fly out: “haunting,” “utterly original,” “important,” a “heightened metaphor for the universally torturous condition that is adolescence.”" But it is glaringly obvious this (long) 84min documentary was shot in only eight days without much attention to detail.

Its subject: Billy, a socially-awkward, talkative, outcast 10th grader who lives in Maine with his mother (and unseen stepfather). Billy has a bumpy familial back-story (a drug addict father who abandoned him) and there’s no doubt he’s an interesting subject, due mostly to his peculiar vernacular. He uses words like “damsels,” speaks cryptically about battles he’s had within himself, and has a quixotic view of heroism and chivalry. He’s overtly kind-hearted, to the point of naivety, that inevitably leads to discomforting situations.

From the start we see Venditti has spent zero time establishing an intimacy between herself, the camera, and Billy. Virtually every scene plays out as if it were planned, staged, or arranged. We’re constantly told things about Billy but rarely do we see the sophistication alluded to. For instance Billy is said to have explosive tantrums; not once does he go over the edge. His mother tells us Billy is “borderline genius” but there’s absolutely nothing that validates this. Another story tells us of a concerned librarian calling home to see if everything was okay, that day Billy had borrowed three books on serial killers. All these are red herrings, superficially painting a picture more complex than we’re given.

Some scenes appear to just be filling time: Billy knocking snow off trees (slow-motioned & strobe effected) reciting a Frost poem; Billy playing a shoot-‘em-up game in an eerily empty video store; Billy playing guitar (is he even playing?) in his room to a VHS tape of his favorite rock band. These scenes are clumsily photographed and histrionically stagy. Why is Billy attracted to 80s glamor rock? What are these inner ‘battles’ Billy has had? We’re left to wonder.

The heart of the film is also the most troubling: Billy’s supposedly ‘love affair’ with a sixteen-year-old waitress, Heather. Heather (who has a condition that makes her eyes shake) works in a family-owned diner that Billy frequents. After an introduction and awkward conversation Billy gets excited. He returns the next day, speaks to Heather, and meets some of her family. The next night they’re out for on a walk. Finally he officially asks her to be his girlfriend, she accepts, onlookers applaud the lad.

On the page this is very sweet, but on-screen it’s harrowing to witness. This “romance” unfolds with everyone painfully aware of the camera and it appears Heather awkwardly agrees to Billy’s advances simply because it would be rude to otherwise. Her family parades out, like deer in headlights, to see this odd young man (and to check out the movie sideshow). Nothing here is genuine other than Billy’s growing infatuation with Heather and his inevitable fall from grace.
The myth of Icarus comes to mind here. Venditti’s camera emboldens Billy, supplying his wings of wax. Day after day his love grows…as he gets closer and closer to the sun. And ultimately the camera is rolling when his wings melt and he falls into the sea.

When we see Heather after the breakup, she can’t say a word. Yes, she’s shy, but she also has no idea who Billy is and seems baffled by the whole situation. (We must keep in mind this all happened in a few short days) Heather, like Billy, has been a pawn in their game.

Many major periodicals, in print and on the web, have not taken the stance written here. Nor do they mention that the film is riddled with sub-par photography. The handheld camerawork undulates distractingly, sometimes in the most pivotal of scenes. Many shots were so under and overexposed they should have never left the editing room. Still photos of Billy and his family were hastily shot, blurring in and out of focus. And scenes between Billy and Heather are so heavily cut that it raises serious questions about the presentation of this courtship. None of these are stylistic choices but blatant evidence that the film was rushed and slapped together. This is the work of a film shot in eight days. Yes, Venditti is a first time director, and that should be taken into consideration, but there has to be a standard on with cinema is judged (especially when accolades and awards come into play).

But it’s not entirely Venditti’s fault. Too many critics (and judges) are not doing the work they’re paid to do. Week after week reviews and critiques roll out rife with platitudes, buzzwords, and effusions of praise or disgust but with no real insight or investigation as to why. This is troubling for readers of criticism and filmgoers alike.

Venditti missed an opportunity here to present a unique individual. Authenticity does peek out from the corners of this film but is left unexplored: the way Billy steps over a bus stop bench, the empty quiet town which serves as the backdrop to Billy and Heather’s walk, the seemingly tragic story of Billy’s mother (which really deserved more time). We don’t even met Billy’s younger sibling(s?) running around the perimeter of the film laughing and playing.

And why does Venditti end the film with a photograph of Billy and Heather? Their four-minute romance is exploited to melodramatic heights. And to add insult-to-injure the filmmaker includes a phone call from Billy’s mom (speaking for Billy) asking the filmmaker to omit portions of the film where he said he’d die for Heather. Of course they took it out…but they inserted the phone call.

The lovable nerd with a heart of gold has become an iconic American character—no matter how much the critics pretend Billy is the first outsider to be presented on-screen—like the court jester we admire their wit. But now we’re tricked into thinking we actually relate to them. Ironically, we’re just laughing more openly. Sadly, Billy is no exception.

Thank you, Mr. Bordwell.

From David Bordwell’s post “Sleeves” — December 3rd, 2007

“Am I fussing over minutiae? No; Wyler and Mizoguchi did. We just have to follow where they lead. As I try to show. . . directors attend closely to things that might seem trivial. Our analysis needs to be as fine-grained as their craft and artistry.”

If film critics recieved awards Bordwell would have at least one Palme d’Or…an inspiration and treasure.

The New Canon. A New direction?

A recent Sunday afternoon I walked north up 21st street in Long Island City, Queens; three candy caned-striped smoke stacks standing tall above the industrial landscape immediately reminded me of the late Antonioni and his masterpiece Red Desert.

Large shadows blanketed 44th Road cast from the non-descript monstrosities flanking either side. What happened inside these buildings, who knows? But I did know what was happening at Local Project, located at 21-36: three young Chilean-born directors were to present four short films. Together they call themselves (and their blog) The New Canon (El Nuevo Canon).

A boney, ornery, orange cat sauntered past as I entered. Inside wide, white walls covered in candy-colored comic book-like designs lead me towards the screening room. A modestly sized crowd murmured before the lights dimmed and the first film—digitally projected onto a makeshift screen—reveled its opening images.

José Luis Torres Leiva’s Women Workers Leaving The Factory (Obreras Saliendo de la Fabrica) set the pace for the evening. The 28-minute film quietly observes a workday in the lives of four female factory workers. Each of Leiva’s weary, expressionless women are shown in a moment of quietude leading back into their clamorous daily tasks—the subtle ebb and flow of their simple existence. The end of the workday arrives, the women journey home, and end up strolling along the shoreline.

Leiva leans heavily on the aural: sounds of heavy machinery, over flying aircrafts, and the ocean surf suffuse the film. Nominally and thematically the film recalls the Lumiere Brothers’ Workers Leaving The Lumiere Factory (1895), one of the first films ever made. And like that 50-second film Leiva’s short unfolds like a silent. The problem is Leiva isn’t making a silent. His female characters are unnaturally speechless, marring the film significantly. Cloaked in silence certain scenes come dangerously close to pantomime.

To be fair there are some great photographic moments. One comes as the women walk gingerly home, the camera loses interest in them and pans up to reveal light dancing through leaves of nearby trees for an extended period, intoning the melancholic mood of the piece.

The final image focuses on the eldest woman. She peers longingly out to the sea. Leiva fades down and up on an old sepia photograph revealing the woman at a younger age (with a male). It ends again on the longing face of the woman.  A non-sequitur ending with forced elegiacism.

The following two films, Along Comes The Rain and From Afar (Lo Que Trae La Lluvia y Desde Lejos), were directed by Alejandro Fernandez, a true talent. Matt Pendleton at Cinema Stubble writes Fernandez “claim[s] to lack the talent of a great director. Hence, his careful attention and studying of cinema.” Fernandez’s modesty contradicts his work. Along Comes The Rain is the story of an elder country woman’s day and her preparations for a visit from her city relatives. Simple as it sounds Fernandez makes it simpler. The woman wakes up early with her husband, milks a cow, kills a chicken, cooks breakfast, makes and sells goat cheese on the highway, buys cookies (which we learn are for her grandson), and later welcomes her relatives.

Fernandez’s view of rural Chile is transfixing. The decaying, worn facade of the countryside—peeling paint, rusty machines, crumbling buildings—is brought almost to the level of a supporting character due to the stellar cinematography. (One shot of the old man walking through a field in early dusk is flawless) Without a hint of nostalgia Along Comes The Rain like an Ozu film hints at the encroaching modern world without exclaiming it. When a businesswoman, in a nice suit and nice car, buys goat cheese from the older woman on the highway we know she’s headed to some big city somewhere outside our reach (and Fernandez’s interest). When the young grandchild comes into the home, unthinkingly grabbing the cookies, and immediately turns on the television (to watch noisy anime) we understand that this world we’ve been shown is violently disappearing. Yet Along Comes The Rain is not a swan song it is an observation. The apathetic shot of the old man staring blankly through the cartoons speaks louder than words.

Fernandez’s second film From Afar isn’t nearly as interesting. It follows a middle-aged city man’s trip back to the country to visit his mother (who lives alone). She fixes him food, does his laundry, as he tries to fix her air pump and plays with the dog. The pace of the film mirrors the county setting and is dragged down by the nothingness that occurs. One conversation of note comes from the mother telling her son about a local group of women seeking to preserve some of the country rituals that are gradually being forgotten, she is pleased. (It is hard not to suspect this is also Fernandez’s modus operandi) From Afar is lighter in tone than Along Comes The Rain, with even a few attempts at comedy, but it doesn’t hold the emotive density I sense Fernandez is capable of.

Cercanos, the final film of the night, directed by film critic Jerónimo Rodríguez, was easily the most formal and ascetic of the bunch. Rodriquez’s view of Chile is seen mostly through the windshield of a car. And like Leiva’s film Cercanos borders dangerously close to being too minimal and ambiguous. None of the characters (three of them) identify themselves; illuminates their relationship between one another; nor explain what they’re doing. The film nonetheless holds your attention as the cityscape lethargically rolls past.

The plot is as follows: a brother and sister drive through the city; brother drops off sis; brother oversees a construction site; brother lunches with father; brother picks up the sister again. “How’s dad doing?,” the she asks. “Better,” the brother replies.

The seminal moment—and perhaps the saving grace—is the construction site scene. (Rodríguez informs me the brother is an architect though nothing in the film alludes to this) In this sequence we see the destruction of one building while another is constructed, side by side, adeptly summarizing Rodríguez’s muted view of Chile: a dualistic country transitioning into the 21st century. (One can also detect this duality by comparing Cercanos’ urbanity to the first three films) It’s a powerful sequence, perhaps the strongest of the night.

Cercanos is a hypnotic experience. You watch it searching for answers Rodriquez is not eager to divulge. Is this film simply about a quiet family driving around Santiago? Is the father being “better” some metaphor for Chile’s development? I’m uncertain. Either way it must be noted, again, that it isn’t an enthusiastic better but an observational one. Rodríguez is a director who keeps his distance (maybe too far), more documenter than eulogist.

When an audience member inquired if Rodríguez ’s film had a single viewpoint or was open to multiple interpretations he responded with a few words from Abbas Kiarostami: “The best cinema is that which questions. And it is left to the spectator to look for the answers to complete the unfinished work.”

One would be hard pressed to not admire what these filmmakers are doing, what they’ve achieved, and what they stand for. In a nutshell The New Canon seeks “to explore new directions in cinema and to call attention to a new breed of filmmakers…whose work challenge the way we usually understand cinema.” Although the films I viewed weren’t as revolutionary as the directors may have hoped for each is extraordinarily mature for first films. Not for a second would I be surprised to see any or all of these directors producing stronger, more sophisticated work in the near future.

But I left the screening scratching my head, asking that age-old question a film sage once asked: “What is cinema?” What does The New Canon really mean when it says it sets out to challenge the way we usually understand cinema. Who is this we?

I’d argue The New Canon is discharging their barrels in the wrong direction. There has been, and will always be, a cleft between high art and popular culture. Popular culture has its tropes and clichés as much as independent and art films do. And while popular culture has a vested interest in belittling, suppressing, and commercializing important works (and movements) of art there’s likewise a surreptitious glee the art crowd gets from lamenting the decaying state of cinema. Of course each new generation of artists must negate that which has preceded them in order to progress. The New Wave had to overthrow the “shabby hacks” & “profound nullity” of their cinema before forging new ground. But the specific approach to cinema The New Canon is interested in is not for the masses. They’re building on a foundation poured by directors like Bresson, Antonioni, and Ozu, carried on by Kiarostami, Tarr, and Hou. In the cineaste’s world these names majestically ring out, in popular culture those names are as foreign sounding as their films. So the battle The New Canon is proposing to wage is non-existent, if not futile. Besides, as a famous philosopher once wrote, “the crowd is untruth.”

Walking away from those smoke stacks I realized with the recent passing of Kubrick, Altman, Bergman, and, of course Antonioni, that there are major seats open for a new breed of filmmakers. There are countless stories to be told, thousands of rules to be challenged and changed, and acres and acres of unexplored cinematic territory waiting to be discovered & excavated. Pendleton points out that The New Canon “wears their influences on their sleeves.” This is one part blessing, one part damning. The path these ambitious filmmakers have chosen to take is certainly not the easiest, hardly rewarding; but I can almost hear Rodríguez stridently say, “it is the only path!” Admirable. And can one challenge the status quo while so blatantly paying homage to inspirational filmmakers? The answer put simply is yes.

At their roots The New Canon is calling and reaching for a purity of cinema. This purity they seek—masterfully demonstrated by so many of their influences—hopefully leads to deeper truths which cinema can reveal about the world which surrounds and baffles us. Frustratingly, as many modern directors have shown, these truths are often ambigous.

And although The New Canon directors may wince at this point, this purity, austerity, or minimalism, can be traced back to the very origins of cinema. Hence I’m not surprised that (at least in spirit) the Lumiere Brothers were evoked that evening—and all the better for it. So much of what those brothers did was about observation, cinema at its purist, its most truthful and revealing. And while The New Canon has chosen enormous footsteps to fill one hopes they will eventually trot out in their own direction…maybe to stray into some of that unexplored territory.

Cinema has taken major strides in the last two decades yet I feel this younger generation have yet to find their voice—a true voice. Granted these things take time. But these three filmmakers are well on their way. T.S. Eliot famously wrote, “immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.” I’d say The New Canon is closer to thievery than mimicry.

Don’t Smile, Jedediah

DECLARATION OF PRINCIPLES

“I will provide the readers of this blog with an in-depth investigation of the arts.  This promise will be kept.  I will show where we’ve gone wrong and where others have gotten it right.  I will be a fighting and tireless champion/critic who speaks honestly, and no special interests will be allowed to interfere with that truth.”

Herman Scherer Bergman

“Solly!”